So, I guess I have to do the obligatory 'this is my first time posting, please don't kill me' post, I don't think I've been more nervous in my life, but I was encouraged to post this by a friend of mine, so... enjoy?
Outside of the warehouse, it is unnervingly quiet. A brilliantly blue sky fades to grey at the horizon. There is no wind. The now-bare branches of trees are black, silhouetted as they spread ever outwards. Golden leaves cover the ground in a warming blanket, blasphemously loud as Sam steps through them blindly. He is dimly aware of Dean's grip around his upper arm as he stumbles, hauling him forward even as he falls.
No. Please, no.
Every fibre in his being wants to turn around, to face whatever remains, but Dean's grasp is iron-like, bruising and Sam knows that whatever he does, whatever he says, Dean will not let him, will force him away. But he needs to do something, something to stop the pain in his chest, something to…
…it was never enough.
Dean doesn't slow, doesn't even falter when Sam stumbles again, half-dragging him to his feet as they continue running. He is stoic and silent, and Sam wants nothing more than to be seven years old again, when all his worries could be brushed aside with easy teasing words.
He hears Dean talking, yelling, but when the sounds reach him they are so distorted they are unrecognisable, and the steady roaring in his head grows louder. His vision blurs as his legs give out again, and he feels his knees collide with gravel, Dean no longer holding onto him.
There is no one left to break his fall.
I cannot break…
He struggles to his feet at the same time as two hands grasp his jacket and pull at him viciously. His head is forced down as he feels himself being pushed forwards brutally, his shin striking something sharp. He is twisted and uncomfortable when the hands finally release him, and the silence seems so much further away when an engine starts.
He hears Dean's voice.
He can't hear Dean's words.
Reality comes back to him slowly, as he rises from the submerged depths of his half-conscious mind. He is stiff, cramped in the back seat of the Impala and there is - for the first time in a long time - silence, and Sam thinks that the lack of 'music for the road' is just as frightening as everything that has been cast onto both of their shoulders.
He sits up slowly, mindful of his aching head, and Dean spins around, pulling over to the side of the road immediately. He's out of the car and opening Sam's door in less than four seconds. Sam looks up at him, at the brother that everyone has tried to tear away from him and can no longer hold in the tears claw at his throat. They have been threatening to fall for a long time.
Dean manhandles him wordlessly out of the car, pulls Sam into his chest in a rough embrace. Dean understands. Dean always understands. Dean always tries to understand, even when he doesn't really. And Sam hides his face against Dean's neck as he grips the lapels of his brother's leather jacket.
"I'm sorry, Sammy," whispers Dean. "I'm sorry."
Sam cries silently.